The Rumour Mill
by sunny-historian
Summary: Everyone knows that rumours aren't true. Vetinari knows that; Vimes knows that... but "nature is a confirmed plagiarist of art..." *CHAPTER 5 UP AT LAST!*
1. Beginnings

Disclaimer: Vetinari and Vimes were both invented by Terry Pratchett and the characters are owned by him. He'd probably be appalled by what I've done with them - sorry!

  
  
  
  
  
  


Lord Vetinari smiled. That is, he allowed one corner of his mouth to quirk upwards, which in anyone without his rigid control would have been screaming hysteria. He was very much amused.

It had never ceased to amaze him that, after twenty years as Patrician, the people of Ankh-Morpork were still inventing romantic entanglements for him. It was quite incomprehensible, but in its way oddly endearing. He ran the city for its own profit and for his love for power, but he did sometimes feel a sneaking affection for the people in it. He strangled it, of course. Every person was merely useful potential for foment and discord. Or, in the case of the one now waiting in his outer office, anger and action.

He smiled again. Did they think that he didn't know what they said? He saw the man briefly every week, but anyone asked would have put the Duke high on the list of Patrician's Paramours. Rather a compliment, Vetinari supposed, that he could be suspected of seducing a married man in fifteen minutes. The left corner of his mouth joined its fellow in curving into a smile as he called out "Come!"

Vimes entered the office and almost fainted. He had never seen the Patrician smile quite like that before. What he usually felt in Vetinari's presence was abject fear, but it was now joined by extreme nervousness. He swallowed.

"Ah, commander," said Vetinari, not letting up on the formidable smile, "I hope that you will honour us with your presence at the soirée tonight - you did get the invitation?"

Vimes, who had, for once, seen the gilt-edged card before it was lost in the mounds of paperwork on his desk, stared straight ahead. "Sir?"

"Oh, what a pity. That makes it rather short notice, doesn't it? Still, I'm sure that you can find your ducal regalia by seven. And how is the city?"

He dragged his mind from the Patrician's finely chiselled cheekbones with an effort. "Very quiet, sir. There's been nothing all day."

"Dear me. But the rumour mills are still grinding well."

"Sir?"

"Oh, the usual gossip about the private lives of well-known figures. Nothing true, of course, but I always find that it is useful to know what people think."

Vimes couldn't help it, and his concentration was all on Vetinari's vulpine nose. "What do they think, sir?"

"Well, there's always the faction that considers a quarter of an hour's report each week the ideal basis for a liaison..."

Vimes translated this and blanched. "You mean... they say that you... that I... that we..."

"Absolutely. You seem to have mastered the situation with admirable precision."

If he smiles any more, though Vimes, I'll faint. "But it isn't true, sir!"

"I had worked that out, commander. This is merely rumour."

And his smile had heightened, and Vimes found his eyes drawn to the long fingers, so slim and strong and capable, steepled at Vetinari's lips. The Patrician really did have quite extraordinarily lovely hands.... Vimes felt himself sliding.

"Sir, I... they needn't... I mean..."

And the Patrician had stood up and rounded the desk. "It needn't be rumour?" he had asked in the silkiest of his many sensual tones, and Vimes had felt himself blush like a tomato in a Turkish bath. And Vetinari had caught him as he lost control and then, lying in those remarkably strong thin arms, Vimes had looked up into the twin stars of those slate-grey eyes that he had only ever glimpsed before, that had been so cold and yet so compelling. But as he had looked into them they had flamed into passion. And Vetinari had put him gently onto his feet and gathered him into an embrace, and at last dreams had become reality. And it wasn't until Vimes was walking dazedly back towards Pseudopolis Yard with the memory of that last fiery press of his lips that he remembered Sybil.


	2. Hatred

Disclaimer: Vimes belongs to Terry Pratchett, as does darling Vetinari, and most of the street names as well. Plus the cats'-head cobbles. 

  
  


I know this kind of angst is getting OOC! And I know this isn't something Vimes would have done anyway! But never mind! Oh, and Vetinari seems to be turning into the boy I fancy, so if you notice any physical description you don't agree with, sorry...

  
  


Should he tell her? was the refrain that hammered at his mind with every step of his feet on the streets he knew so well.

  
  


The courtyard outside the palace. Cobbles. Sentries. Should he tell her? Should he tell her?

  
  


Viney Street. Crazy paving. Should he tell her?

  
  


Holofernes Street. Large paving slabs. Should he tell her?

  
  


Gleam Street. Mud, mostly. At least he didn't wear the boots she had given him. At least there wasn't that reproach in his steps as well. But should he tell her? 

  
  


Cobbles again. Round cats-head cobbles. Should he tell her?

  
  


Cat's head cobbles?

  
  


The palace? He'd hardly seen where he was going. He'd known, of course - these were his streets and his boots, and he could read them - but the information had gone from his feet to his memory without troubling to stop and inform his racing brain. Why had he come back to the palace?

  
  


Because he was in love with the perfect Patrician.

  
  


Because he was foul and vile. He had betrayed her. He had betrayed himself.

  
  


He was perverted.

  
  


He was sick.

  
  


Literally. He staggered towards the fountain - not bothering to think of those who would try to drink from it: if they thought any water was safe, they shouldn't be in Ankh-Morpork - and vomited. 

  
  


He had kissed the Patrician. He had held the Patrician's strong, lovely hands. He had dared to do what he had been fancying himself doing in his secret heart for months. He had at last touched the beautiful Vetinari. He had kissed his master's narrow, sensuous lips! he had stroked the dark olive skin! he had touched the sharp straight nose! His dreams of that had been short and shameful. How could he have had the courage? How could he have lost the control?

  
  


He tried to forget the Patrician's eyes, those slate stars framed by long, long lashes, but still they filled his mind. The sky seemed full of his face, his dark skin and delicate features; and his slight figure was in every beat of Vimes' too-hasty heart. What had he done?


	3. Fear

**Chapter Three**

  
  


_This is rubbish. I know; I can't write convincing Vetinari; I had to do this dreadful chapter so I could get on to the interesting part of the story; it'll probably end up very long; you don't have to read it, but don't say I didn't warn you..._

  
  


_Vetinari and Vimes belong to Pterry; Drumknott is his as well; I'm not sure who owns Elkiah Mownde - he's a blatant crib from Dickens, though I _have_ changed the name and catchphrase! Apologies. _

  
  


Vetinari looked out of his window to see the figure of the Commander of the Watch wandering dazedly about the square. *Oh, dear...* he thought, something that rarely passed his lips, *I seem to have gone too far. Perhaps it was a mistake.*

  
  


But after all, it had been Vimes who had asked. Not that it hadn't been pleasant, but it was not something he particularly wished to repeat. He was perfectly happy without personal relationships. They only got in the way of his true thirst - his thirst for control.

  
  


There was a knock on the door.

  
  


"Come," he said languidly, expecting Drumknott; his mind busy with plans to repair the Duke of Ankh.

  
  


"Good morning, sir,"said a rather oleaginous voice, and Vetinari looked up in slight annoyance.

  
  


"And you might be...?"

  
  


The stooped figure raised its grimy cloth cap, and the Patrician had a horrid glimpse of lank strands of black hair combed over a bald patch. "Elikah Mownde, sir," he said, "I'm afraid I took the liberty, though I should 'ope I'd always be found quite lowly, sir, as I should be, I'm afraid I took the liberty of telling your clerk I was expected."

  
  


The Patrician glared at him. The greasy little mannikin seemed quite impervious, although a jug of water that happened to be in the direct firing line froze solid. "You are not expected, Mr Mownde, and neither are you required. The door is behind you. It opens if you turn the handle."

  
  


"Oh, I'm ever so lowly, but I can't 'elp thinking if I was to tell you what I seen, you wouldn't be taking that tone with me. Shall I tell you what I seen, when I was looking up at where they said the great Patrician always worked? Shall I say who I seen through the window, and who they was 'olding, and what they was a-doing of? But you already know, don't you, cos who was it? Why, who'd believe that? But I say there's plenty of people what'd believe that, and some of them would be right 'orrified, if you gets my meaning."

  
  


Vetinari weighed up his options. They were depressingly few. The unctuous voice had said just what he had known. *Hades,* he thought.


	4. Realisations

Nobody's mine. Nobody whatsoever, in any way soever, whomsoever they be, belongs to me. Ooh... it rhymes... (Sorry, not a good idea to write these intolerable disclaimers late at night!)

  
  


It was hard to switch off the inner policeman. As Vimes' conscious mind whirled with horror and disgust, his subconscious watched intently as a greasy little man left the palace, grinning horribly. It seized that gloating grin and analysed why it could be there. And as those calculations percolated through his roiling mind, he slowly froze in horror.

  
  


The creature was halfway across the square, going quite fast despite his hunched, lopsided gait. Vimes gave chase, the idea going to his feet like electricity with no intervening thought. Almost as he reached him, Vimes' brain caught up.

  
  


There was no way, once he'd got the man, that he could say anything. Even if he was right, there could be no charge. He could do nothing.

  
  


His old thoughts, forgotten in the chase, hit him as if he'd called the Librarian a monkey. What in the name of all the gods could he do now?

  
  


He fumbled for his cigar case and opened it. His heart contracted. 

  
  


To Sam, with love from your Sybil. 

  
  


Gods.

  
  


The guards at the Palace gate stood aside as he stumbled in. He looked as though he would have been hard pressed to see them, let alone do anything about it if they had been in his way, but even more he looked like a man about to shatter. Anger? Grief? Pain? The palace guards were about as perceptive as the wrong end of a telescope, but they felt the visceral emotions rolling from the Duke of Ankh in waves. They stood aside.

  
  


In the waiting room with its horrible clock, Sam Vimes hesitated for the first time since that moment in the square. Could he? Should he?

  
  


He knocked on the door rather more loudly then he had intended to, and imagined the lift of that delicate black eyebrow. He scrubbed at his eyes, willing them to stop seeing the Patrician, and pressed a hand to his mouth as that voice called "Come!"

  
  


He leaned on the door, feeling as if he was wearing boxing gloves, his hands too clumsy to operate the handle, and stared at the face that haunted his mind. "Gngn..." was all he managed to choke through his tight throat. The pain in his chest was worse. He needed a drink.

  
  


He needed to shut his eyes. He knew he was staring with his mouth hanging open, but his body felt like someone else's. His mind was full of those eyes - that skin - that hairline - those hands that were even now gripping him, holding him upright, helping him to a chair.

  
  


Drink, he thought, and then, Say it. He swallowed until he thought he could speak.

  
  


"I'm... sorry."


	5. Finis?

Chapter Five

  
  


I'm so sorry this has taken so long to write. I'm sorrier that it's so short. Life and love (the one far too busy, the other not nearly as busy as I wish!!!) just took over... my most heartfelt apologies.

  
  


Well, as for a disclaimer... "The Marthter owns everybody" do?

  
  


For once in his passionless life, Lord Vetinari was moved. He couldn't accept that two words had moved him so much that he really didn't know what to say. He realised that he really didn't know Vimes at all. He could usually direct him, play him like a marionette, pull his levers exactly as he chose. But not now. 

  
  


No. Now he saw pain and self-loathing, emotions he had never assigned to the Duke. Guilt, too. He hadn't foreseen it and he was powerless to heal it. He had failed. This was something he could not control.

  
  


"I know of nothing for which you must apologise," he said, knowing even as he finished that his usual stiff, cool manner was the wrong note to strike. Perhaps there had been more in that kiss than he had known. Perhaps he did feel something for Vimes. 

  
  


He too had forgotten so much in his years as Patrician. Now her face floated before his eyes. He hadn't thought of her face for months; it was surprising that he still remembered it. But he did remember it, he could trace every line from memory.

  
  


"No more. It was wrong." said Vimes. He had lost the jerky horror that had made him talk at first, but his speech was still not fluent. Vetinari, lost in his thoughts, nodded.

  
  


"Don't apologise to me. The fault was mine as much as yours," A new sensation, this, taking the blame for his actions! "Go back to your wife, Sir Samuel. She loves you; she claims you. Go back to Lady Sybil."

  
  


The door shut behind him, and Vetinari sat down at last. The vision of her face had faded, but he remembered his brief encounter with Vimes and he smiled.

  
  


A/N/ Shall I leave it here? Or do you want a Sam/Sybil bit, or Elikah Mownde turning up to cause trouble? I am entirely in your hands, my dear reviewers... (hint hint)


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